Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8DZY2D883AYJXY3GP3RWK

Rory’s scuffed delivery boots crunched frost into Richmond Park’s bare earth, her left wrist tensing where the crescent scar throbbed—a childhood fall’s ghost stirred by the unknown. Under her pilled wool coat, the Heartstone Pendant’s silver chain bit into her collarbone; the deep crimson gem, thumbnail-sized, pulsed faintly, a warmth she’d learned to trust since the Dymasian stranger pressed it into her palm outside Golden Empress. Her other hand curled around the Fae-Forged Blade in her jeans pocket—moonsilver, leaf-shaped, always cold enough to make her fingers ache through the fabric, a gift Isolde had pressed on her three days prior with a riddle she still hadn’t unpacked. Straight shoulder-length black hair fell in her bright blue eyes as she squinted at the circle of ancient oak standing stones ahead—thick, gnarled trunks hewn into pillars, their bark blackened with age—landmarks she’d never spotted in a dozen delivery detours through the park. Isolde glided ahead, silver waist-length hair catching the winter solstice’s thin light, and Rory’s breath hitched when she realized the Half-Fae left no footprints in the frost. Nyx slithered along the shadow of an oak, their humanoid silhouette shifting between solid and incorporeal—6’2” when they coalesced, violet-glowing eyes cutting through the dim. Their voice curled in Rory’s ear like wind through a crack in her flat’s above-bar window. “The Veil shimmers here. Mortal eyes see only oak pillars. I see the thread that frays—same as the one that trapped me in 1643.” The whisper carried their old sorcerer Aldric’s unspoken weight, a nod to the failed summoning that had bound them as a Shade. Rory’s thumb brushed her wrist scar again, thinking of Evan’s fist, of fleeing Cardiff’s Pre-Law lectures, of Eva’s frantic text that had sent her to London. She’d come here seeking answers about the Dymasian chefs—Prince Belphegor’s helbound contractors—who’d been snatching mortal souls for their gluttonous feasts. The Heartstone’s pulse spiked, hot enough to make her gasp. “It’s burning.” Isolde stopped at the first oak pillar, pale lavender eyes locking on Rory. Her speech was lilted, riddling, as always—her Fae compulsion forbidding lies but permitting misdirection. “The stone that beats for Hel’s feast sees the space between what is and what might be.” Nyx coalesced at Rory’s side, their shadow form brushing her arm like cool smoke. “The Grove is a pocket. Veil thin here—winter solstice weakens it, per your mortal lore. Your pendant senses the rift between Earth and Fae—and maybe the Hel portal you seek.” Rory stepped toward the oak pillar, and for a split second, she saw it: the Veil’s faint shimmering distortion, visible only when Nyx’s shadow stretched over it. The Fae-Forged Blade’s cold seeped through her pocket, a warning. When she crossed the threshold, the world shifted. Frost vanished from her boots. Beneath her feet was soft moss, dotted with wildflowers—poppies, daisies, bluebells—blooming bright in a season that should have left Richmond Park bare. The air smelled like honey and pine, thick enough to drink, and the oak pillars behind her filtered the sun into golden streaks that twisted like Fae smoke. Rory fumbled for her phone, her mortal anchor, and stared. The screen glitched: 3:17 PM flipped to 1:02 AM, then to 9:45 AM, then went dark. “Time’s broken.” “Bent,” Isolde corrected, gliding into the clearing beyond. “Not broken. An hour here is a breath or a lifetime, depending on the wind’s whims.” She left no footprints in the moss, even as her silver hair brushed the wildflowers. Nyx shifted to incorporeal, slipping between the oak pillars’ shadows, their whisper carrying across the clearing. “The Fae’s magic tangles with my realm. I cannot hold solid form for long here—trapped between two spaces is enough for one ageless existence.” Rory knelt to touch a poppy—its petal was silk-soft, warm, even in the filtered light. “These shouldn’t be here. It’s December.” Isolde’s laugh was like wind chimes. “The Grove does not bow to mortal calendars. Wildflowers bloom for the unbound, for those who see beyond the frost.” She gestured to a cluster of mushrooms growing at the base of an oak—their caps glowed faint blue, a detail Rory hadn’t noticed before. Unease coiled in Rory’s gut. Her wrist scar tingled again, sharper this time, and she pulled the Fae-Forged Blade from her pocket. The moonsilver blade glowed faintly, even without moonlight, its cold seeping up her arm. “Why is my scar hurting?” “The Grove tastes mortal wounds,” Isolde said, her voice softening. “It does not heal. It remembers.” She couldn’t lie—Rory parsed the riddle’s layers: the childhood fall that had left the scar? Evan’s fists? The Dymasian souls she’d failed to save on a recent delivery run? Nyx reappeared, solid again but wavering, their violet eyes narrowed. “There’s a rift here. Not just Fae-Earth. Hel’s thread tangles with it. Your pendant’s pulse is proof—Dymas’s stone senses its own realm’s echo. The gluttons’ vineyards reach even into Fae-touched spaces.” Rory clutched the Heartstone Pendant, its warmth a counter to the blade’s cold. She stood, scanning the clearing. The oak standing stones loomed behind her, their bark now glowing faint green—she hadn’t noticed that either. “What do you want from me, Isolde? I came for answers about the Dymasian feasts.” Isolde stepped closer, her lavender eyes locking on the Heartstone. “The red stone that beats for gluttony will lead you to the feast’s door. But the cold blade that cuts wards will decide who eats—and who is eaten.” She paused, then added, “The shadow that walks between realms will be your key. Or your chain.” Rory glanced at Nyx, who shifted to incorporeal again, their shadow slipping into a crack in the oak. Their whisper carried: “I am no one’s key. Nor chain—I was Aldric once, a sorcerer trapped by my own hubris. I choose my own bonds.” Time glitched again. Rory checked her phone—now it showed 5:00 PM, but the sun in the Grove hadn’t moved. She realized she’d been in the clearing for what felt like ten minutes, but her delivery shift was supposed to start in an hour—would she make it back in time for Yu-Fei’s dinner rush? Or would the Grove’s time stretch into a day, making her late and risking her job? She knelt again, touching the moss, and noticed a small rift in the Veil—faint, shimmering, near the base of a standing stone. The Heartstone’s pulse spiked, hot enough to make her yelp. “There’s a portal here. Hel?” Isolde nodded, her silver hair falling over her shoulder. “A thread. Dymas’s master chefs hunger for more souls to contract for their feasts.” She couldn’t lie, but she didn’t say how to close it. Rory’s cool-headed, quick thinking kicked in—her greatest asset from her Pre-Law days. She crushed a daisy under her boot by accident, the soft snap making Isolde’s eyes flicker (a rare crack in her ethereal composure). She tucked the Fae-Forged Blade back into her pocket, clutched the Heartstone Pendant, and looked at Isolde. “Give me one clear answer. Will I survive the Dymasian feast?” Isolde’s lips curved into a faint smile. “The one who carries the cold blade and the burning stone will not be eaten. But she may feast on regret.” Rory parsed the truth beneath the riddle—she’d escape the feast, but not without cost. She nodded, knowing she had to return to the mortal world but would come back for the rift. She stepped toward the oak standing stones, the Heartstone’s pulse slowing as she nears the exit. Nyx slips into her shadow, and Isolde glides to the edge, leaving no footprints in the moss. When Rory steps back into Richmond Park, the frost is still on the ground, her phone shows 3:18 PM—only a minute has passed outside, but the honey-pine scent of the Grove lingers in her nose. She mounts her delivery bike, her left wrist scar still tingling, and glances back at the oak standing stones—now invisible to her mortal eyes. The Heartstone’s faint pulse and the Fae-Forged Blade’s cold remind her she’s not done with the Grove, with Dymas, or with the shadow that walks between realms.